Chapter Two
As soon as he could afford it, Grandfather had redone, with great expansions and modern upgrades in the kitchen and bathrooms, what had been in his family for generations.
It was one of the oldest and, at the time, one of the biggest homes on Birdlane Island.
The family hadn’t been able to afford to keep it up—just heating it cost a fortune—but Grandfather now could.
He had the driveways redone and all the windows, as well as the floors and the stairway.
When it was ready for him and my grandmother, he called it the Crest. It had a magnificent view of Frenchman Bay.
He named it after the highest point of a wave.
Since it was the highest building on Birdlane, that made sense.
You had to drive up a winding road that ran along the rocky shore and then turned sharply to climb the rest of the way to the house, which loomed atop the windswept hill.
Its grand facade was a magnificent blend of Gothic Revival and Victorian elegance steeped in both opulence and secrecy.
The mansion was encased in gray stone with rich decorative elements, pointed arches at the windows, and intricate tracery, and the gabled roof whispered stories of bygone days.
The house, surrounded by lush gardens and winding pathways, offered a picturesque and serene escape from the world.
As you drove closer to the mansion, the road revealed a grand circular centerpiece lush with meticulously kept greenery and beds of blooming flowers reaching out from the darker foliage as if they longed to escape.
Redwood steps led you to the formal entrance towering ahead, with its two grand front doors guarding the history within the mansion.
Upon entering, a grand foyer with a sweeping spiral staircase made of polished mahogany led the way to three of the six bedrooms. Each room in the mansion seemed to breathe its own unique atmosphere, capturing stories from the past.
Grandfather always dreamed of redoing it and began the restoration shortly after he had started his business and its growth had practically exploded. From the way he had described it to me, he had no idea his company would become such a major Maine enterprise. He called it “a shocking delight.”
“I have had only three in my life,” he said to me. “Meeting and marrying your grandmother, the business, and you.”
Grandfather’s housekeeper, Anna, was at the door as usual to greet me.
She had been at the Crest from practically day one after Grandfather’s restoration had been finished.
Anna was in her mid-fifties, had curly graying black hair, and was short and puffy.
Grandfather often kidded her, saying, “Don’t poke yerself, Anna, or you’ll shrink to the size of one of Lisa’s dolls. ”
“Go on with you,” Anna would reply. She knew all about me, about my health issue, but was considerate enough not to mention anything or stare. However, I knew Mommy had told her to keep an eye on me and report anything suspicious.
Anna was from away, some small village in England called Butingford.
Sometimes she talked about it, sounding homesick, but always adding how grateful she was for the opportunity to work for such an important family in so posh a house.
She said that meant the house, Grandfather’s mansion, was rich, beautiful, and impressive like “some lord and lady’s home in England. ”
I knew that Anna liked Mommy very much in particular.
I’d say she even loved her, because Mommy didn’t treat her like someone might treat a servant; she was more like a dear old friend, even a relative, since early on.
Mommy once said that some people in Maine acted like we were still in the Revolutionary War and hated the British.
Anna was especially good at handling Grandfather, who could be quite grouchy sometimes, seemingly only when Daddy or Aunt Frances was around.
Anna would click her lips and shake her head. Most of the time, Grandfather would “pull up on the reins” and calm down.
“He’s got his ways,” Anna would tell me, “but who doesn’t? Most men just need you to scratch their back a bit and get that itch gone.”
Maybe most men, but not Daddy, I thought.
“Oh, don’t you look lovely,” she said when I arrived.
“Thank you, Anna.”
“He’s in his usual chair on the northwest patio.”
I nodded and entered. Grandfather liked this side of the Crest because it didn’t face the ocean. “I see it all day, all my life,” he had told me. “Sometimes it’s good to look elsewhere.”
At first I couldn’t quite understand how someone could tire of something as vast and beautiful as the sea.
But standing there with Grandfather, trying to look at the side that turned its back to the sea, I began to grasp the comfort he found in facing this way.
The rolling hills and the full cluster of trees brought a sense of peace.
His face exploded in that wide joyous look that always made me feel better and more energetic.
As long as I had known him, I thought Grandfather Charlie was a better-looking man than Daddy, even now, in his late seventies.
He still had a full head of graying dark brown hair and that perfectly trimmed mostly gray mustache that to me suggested a movie-star British general.
He certainly talked and moved like one. His posture didn’t falter an iota.
I was sure Daddy either had inherited or consciously imitated the way Grandfather stood with that military perfection, especially when confronting other people.
You almost wished you could say, “At ease.”
“Hi, Grandfather,” I said.
“Every time I look at you, I see more of your mother,” he said. “C’mon, sit down.” He patted the chair beside him. “How are things at school?”
“Good. I’m practically getting personal art lessons from my art teacher.”
“Mr. Angelo,” he said. It always astonished me how much detail Grandfather knew about me and what I did. I didn’t think my father had told him, but if he did, there was a good chance it was in the form of a complaint.
“Yes.”
“My grandmother thought she could be an artist. There might be some of her paintings in the basement. Brought it all with me when we first moved into this place.”
“Really? I’d love to see them.”
“I’ll have them found and brought up. When you finish something you’re proud of, bring it for me to see. I have plenty of wall space that needs beautiful things.”
“Oh, I don’t know if they are that good, Grandfather.”
He lost his smile. “There is one thing I want put for good in some closet,” he said, “and that’s lack of self-confidence. Those people who suffer that never succeed at much.”
“You sound like Daddy.”
“Occasionally, he listens to me.”
Anna appeared in the doorway.
“What’cha making for us?” Grandfather asked instantly.
“That Cobb salad you’ve been wanting.”
“How come it took so long to get it?” he asked, half kidding. I could see the twinkle in his eyes.
“Shortage of Cobb,” she tossed back at him.
He laughed. “And some of your special lemonade, if you please.”
As soon as she left to prepare our lunch, Grandfather turned to me and said, “Never let that woman go.”
“Why would I? How could I?”
He turned and looked long and hard out the window at the trees and well-trimmed bushes. There was a rise to a small hill. Another view of the ocean was on the other side of it.
“Your seventeenth birthday is next weekend, correct?”
“Yes. And you agreed to have my party here.”
“Agreed? I was the one who suggested it.”
“Oh, Mommy didn’t say.”
“Today I’ll be giving you some pre-birthday presents. Your grandmother Harriet wouldn’t like it, but she’ll forgive me.”
He turned with his smile.
“She did that many times: disapprove of something I did or said. She wouldn’t yell; she would just click her lips and widen her eyes.”
“I wish I had been born earlier so I would have known her.”
“Me too. Wish you had.”
Anna arrived with our lunch and set it out.
“Let’s eat this rare lunch first,” Grandfather said.
Anna shook her head and smiled at me. “He’s had it many times, including just last Sunday.”
“You ever see such an insolent servant?” Grandfather joked.
She tapped him playfully on the shoulder and left us.
“It is delicious,” I said. I ate and watched him, trying to keep from blurting out, “Tell me. What pre-birthday present?”
Grandfather, on the other hand, ate calmly, gazed out at the scenery, and, when he was ready, turned to me. I knew no one else, in the family or out of it, who had his patience. How many times had he told me that there were no accidents with patience? Probably a hundred times.
He paused, laid down his fork, and reached into his sports jacket pocket to produce an envelope.
“I want you to read this and then give it back to me. It will be in my safe-deposit box at the Birdlane National Bank. This,” he said, holding up a key, “is the key to the box. I’ll keep it taped to the back of my desk drawer.
After you read the papers, I’ll answer any questions you have.
I trust you and know you will keep it to yourself unless it is necessary to reveal at some future date. ”
I reached for the envelope slowly. He didn’t release it. He held it and stared at me with his piercing gray-blue eyes.
“Understand? This is trust in its most pure form, Lisa.”
“I understand, Grandfather.”
“Good,” he said, and released it.
I think my fingers trembled as I opened the envelope and took out the papers. Grandfather watched me start to read and then turned away to look out again at the scenery. As I read, I could feel my throat tighten. It was as if I was trying to swallow tea that was not yet cool enough.
After I read both documents, I sat speechless.
Grandfather turned back slowly. “Even now,” he said, “your grandmother would have forbidden my showing that to you.”
I glanced at the papers again to be sure I had read them and this wasn’t some dream.
“Do my father and Aunt Frances know this?”